“Your wish can very easily be gratified,” returned the official, pressing an electric button on his desk;

“Mr. Challoner is in the adjoining room.”  Then, as the door communicating with the room he had mentioned swung ajar and stood so, Dr. Heath added, without apparent consciousness of the dramatic character of this episode, “You will not need to raise your voice beyond its natural pitch.  He can hear perfectly from where he sits.”

“Thank you.  I am glad to speak in his presence,” came in undisturbed self-possession from this not easily surprised witness.  “I shall relate the facts exactly as they occurred, adding nothing and concealing nothing.  If I mistook my position, or Miss Challoner’s position, it is not for me to apologise.  I never hid my business from her, nor the moderate extent of my fortune.  If she knew me at all, she knew me for what I am; a man of the people who glories in work and who has risen by it to a position somewhat unique in this city.  I feel no lack of equality even with such a woman as Miss Challoner.”

A most unnecessary preamble, no doubt, and of doubtful efficacy in smoothing his way to a correct understanding with the deeply bereaved father.  But he looked so handsome as he thus asserted himself and made so much of his inches and the noble poise of his head—­though cold of eye and always cold of manner—­that those who saw, as well as heard him, forgave this display of egotism in consideration of its honesty and the dignity it imparted to his person.

“I first met Miss Challoner in the Berkshires,” he began, after a moment of quiet listening for any possible sound from the other room.  “I had been on the tramp, and had stopped at one of the great hotels for a seven days’ rest.  I will acknowledge that I chose this spot at the instigation of a relative who knew my tastes and how perfectly they might be gratified there.  That I should mingle with the guests may not have been in his thought, any more than it was in mine at the beginning of my stay.  The panorama of beauty spread out before me on every side was sufficient in itself for my enjoyment, and might have continued so to the end if my attention had not been very forcibly drawn on one memorable morning to a young lady—­Miss Challoner—­by the very earnest look she gave me as I was crossing the office from one verandah to another.  I must insist on this look, even if it shock the delicacy of my listeners, for without the interest it awakened in me, I might not have noticed the blush with which she turned aside to join her friends on the verandah.  It was an overwhelming blush which could not have sprung from any slight embarrassment, and, though I hate the pretensions of those egotists who see in a woman’s smile more than it by right conveys, I could not help being moved by this display of feeling in one so gifted with every grace and attribute of the perfect woman.  With less caution than I usually display, I approached the desk where she had